


Death is Red

by merrabeth



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Maybe OOC, a bit ambiguous, a bit artsy, i have no idea really, kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:26:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2699558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrabeth/pseuds/merrabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey gets a visit from Death.<br/>(That's all I'm saying about it)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death is Red

**Author's Note:**

> Never have I been able to write out an entire idea like I did this one. It may seem a bit confusing, but just try to get through it. Enjoy ^.^

_“Mr. Milkovich, can you describe Death for us,” the lady says. Mickey doesn’t remember if she’s the prosecutor or the public defender._

_But he could gladly and vividly describe Death for anyone who wanted to know…_

* * *

 

Mickey always walked with a purpose; that was his thing. Sure, he was a thug and all that and he was very happy to stand on the corner, waiting for his next prey, but when he was moving, he was really going. And he’s been pissed to the point of murder for days now; he’s not sure why.

But today he walked with a purpose to someone, and he very much didn’t want to see this person, but he’d just woken up and he knew he _had_ to.

He’s at The Alibi in no time and frantically searching for a familiar face with a familiar name.

“Where’s Frank?” he asks the bar. He’s entrance wasn’t pause-worthy or even worth a glance, but people know his voice and are eager to turn when a Milkovich speaks.

People with familiar faces but unknown names raise vague arms and point to the general direction of the pool table in the far back, where Frank is, engrossed in a drunken conversation as usual. His heart is beating and he’s shocked that he’s actually here, walking towards the neighborhood disappointment.

“Frank!” he calls, not giving the man the smidge of courtesy Mickey actually has.

His eyes are glazed over and his blond hair whips with every move of his spinning head. “Mickey! Great to see ya. I told your dad I’d have the money by next month…”

Mickey doesn’t listen for two reasons: the debt that Frank owes is almost older than Mickey himself and Mickey, quite frankly, doesn’t give a shit. There are more pressing issues at hand.

“Fuck that- listen. I need to talk to you about something.”

At the mention that Frank’s life wasn’t on the line, he sobers up enough to hear whatever has to be said.

Mickey doesn’t want to utter the question. It’s embarrassing and deadly. “You’ve said you’ve seen…Death, right?” His eyes burn into the glazed over eyes in front of him. Frank nods his head quickly before holding his head up a bit higher.

“A few times, actually. The most recent time, he said I wasn’t worth it; that he didn’t want me by his side for the rest of eternity. Can you believe that? _Death_ doesn’t want _me_! Pompous asshole that guy is. He’d be _lucky_ to have me-“

“Shut up!” Mickey interrupts. He doesn’t know what to do at this moment. “H-how does it work? How is supposed to work?”

Frank shrugs, the urgency in Mickey’s voice having the opposite effect on his drunken state. “I think you’re supposed to see them once each-“

“Wait, what? ‘Once each’? ‘Them’? There’s two Deaths?”

Frank nods again. “Brothers,” he explains. “One ginger and the other a blond. The ginger’s a bit more polite, but they’re both desolate assholes.” Mickey can tell he’s losing Frank in the anger of not being taken by Death. “All they do is clean up Life’s shit! They’re just over praised janitors-“

“And then you die?” Mickey needs Frank to stay focused. “After you see both of them, you die?”

He gives another nod. “Why? Did you see ‘em?”

 Mickey doesn’t answer because he’s seen one- the blond; he’s seen the arrogance behind those blue eyes, the smirk, the way he folded his arms over his puffed up chest , the way his voice was so light as he spoke, “I’m Death”.

“Mick, you don’t look so good,” Frank observes, his words starting to jumble all together.

Mickey’s not sure where he is. He knows he’s in The Alibi, a dimly lit bar full of the patrons of their scummy neighborhood, but he doesn’t see any of that. He only sees the wooden floor in front of him. But he sees those eyes sprouting from the decrepit wood. Those blues eyes that made his eyes look warm in comparison, the many lives they’ve seen be taken by his own hands. No. No. None of this could be right. How could he possibly see Death right now? He couldn’t possibly-

“Will they even have a funeral for him?” someone whispers. But it sounds like a shout from across the room, and he finally looks away from the floor and everyone’s finally laid eyes on him. He’s a dead man, and they all know it.

“I can’t escape it, can I?” Mickey mumbles the question, but it’s gotten so silent that people can hear, and they can answer freely, all in a state of constant drunkenness.

“Maybe Death won’t like you for some reason, too.” It’s a lady with a familiar face and unknown name. She has red hair, like someone he thinks he remembers, but he can’t be bothered to try and relay where that could possibly be from. 

He goes home.

And he doesn’t drink.

Somehow, he believes being sober in death will be better; maybe he wants to know that it’s actually happening. After all, nothing could be worse than the hell that Life has given him so incessantly.

Mickey only stares out the window of his bedroom. The night is cloudy, so he can’t tell if this big yellow moon is half or whole. He suspects whole, but the clouds won’t dare let him know the truth. He’s never noticed much in the first place, so why, on the night where he learns his fate, should things in life be any different?

Sleep finally takes over, but he doesn’t remember most of the night- he doesn’t even remember if he dreams or not, but that’s normal. Everything is as normal as it should until he finally begins to see. It’s nothing special and everything is dark. He’s not sure how long he’s watching the empty room until what has to be Death appears.

Mickey holds his breath and he prays it’s just a guise, because how could this be easy if Death was so, so…

“Oh my God.”

His eyes are green and they could even be figured as kind eyes. And his cheeks are pale with the faintest freckles. And those lips! He’s not even sure if this is Death that stands before him, because Mickey’s sure this guy would give him life, everything he’s always really wanted, what he had to deny for years.

Death smirks. “Do you even believe in God, Mickey?”

Somehow, Mickey finds his voice. “Is that the test question? Is this where it begins?”

Death looks rather confused, eyebrows scrunched together and lips poked in a pout as he tilts his head, the red hair on top swaying from his forehead. “What test?”

“Isn’t there a test or something?”

Death laughs. It’s small and short and sweet. This guy can’t possibly be here to take Mickey away. “Nah, there’s no test. And I’m not here to take you away.”

“What? I’m not gonna-but I saw-“

“Yeah,” Death nods as he walks forward. “My brother kinda gets off on scaring others. I can’t do shit about it. That’s why he’s usually the first one people sees.” He shrugs and folds his arms over his chest. His arms are strong and they look protecting. This can’t be right.

“So why the fuck are you here then? I’ve seen you. I have to die.”

“Not necessarily. Besides, you’re a special case anyways.” He gives another reassuring smile and Mickey feels something inside him he can’t place begin to churn.

“I’m a- wha-why?”

“Death collects the dead. And we usually don’t go along to people who are chosen to kill-“

“I’m gonna murder someone?” Never has the notion made him so uncomfortable. Convict and hardcore thud Mickey Milkovich couldn’t possibly take away a life.

“I think you’ll like this, though.” He walks forward more, closing the distance, and the light that follows Death makes him look like an angel sent down just for him. “Your father wasn’t assigned, but took it upon himself to fuck up the lives of you and your siblings. He’s wronged you and Mandy- your brothers have been brainwashed-“

“I have to kill my- him?” Mickey can’t call that man his father. He’s the reason for his anger, as Mickey had decided around a year ago. It’s been festering in his pit, and though the anger and resentment has grown and populated like a cancer in his very soul, never once had the thought of actually _killing_ him ever came to mind.

“It has to be you, Mickey. We’ve tried going to him, to visit him but-“

“Is Death afraid of Terrance Milkovich?” Mickey wants to be amused by that; he wants to laugh, but he can’t. He can only see the hatred that burns in him and he can understand why they would be afraid.

“I’ll be there to guide you through it, Mickey.” His voice is smooth, light but not heavy like his brother’s. He’s tall as he stands before Mickey. His eyes are laminated like emerald and Mickey doesn’t want to wake up, and he almost wants to be taken away by him, this version of Death, the one that makes him look as though living was worth it.

He drops his head before looking to Mickey through his copper lashes. “This _is_ me, Mickey. And I promise, I’ll come for you one day.” There is a strong hand millimeters from Mickey’s face, so close that the hairs stand at attention- and Death’s strong hand is there to caress him, let him feel what it’s like to ever want something so bad, to actually ever fight for something- to _kill_ for something.

 “I’ll be there with you tomorrow.” His voice is hush, like these words are only for Mickey and Mickey only in this empty room in the dream in his head. Death leans forward, those sinful lips at Mickey’s ear. “I can’t wait to have you at my side. When your time comes, it won’t be painful. I promise.” 

Mickey closed his eyes, to only allow himself to feel the breath at his ear and his neck, to let his ears hear the softness of those words, to let himself only feel the strong hand at his shoulder, to let his senses envelope Death as much as possible.

When he finally opened his eyes, Mickey met his bedroom ceiling. Outside, the clouds still hung low and heavy, and Mickey felt like he was weighed down to his bed, never going to be able to get out. When he finally willed his body to move into the sitting position, he felt exhausted. Who knew waking up sober was this tiresome?

* * *

 

Mickey had gotten a message from his brother, saying they were supposed to meet at an abandoned building. He knew what this meant; that he’d be sent out on some mission or whatever for that man and possibly get caught by the police again. He wasn’t a minor anymore. He hasn’t been for a year.

And he knows how big of a chance he’s taking, not going to meet up with them. Usually when he gets to the point of murderous anger, he goes to Boystown, because nothing feels more freeing than knowing no one is judging you. So he’s there, leaning against a convenient store, watching people passing by, laughing, playing, being free. And it’s not on anyone’s mind if he were to be with a guy, if it was right or not; here, it’s right. Everything about Mickey is right here.

He keeps seeing that smirk, Death’s. He wants to see that smirk forever; he wants to be the reason why it’s there; he just wants to see that face here, and know that life could be good, life could be right for him. But he knows he’s standing there, and it’s all a movie-just a great movie that will end, and he’ll be walking back home and his life will be there, waiting for him, to beat him down so he knows that he could never be a part of that life, with people just laughing playing, and able to hold a guy’s hand because it’s warm and worth it.

_“I’ll be there with you. I promise.”_

Mickey takes in a shuddering breath. What does that mean, really? What is it of him that wants to die so much? And where did this need come from? But Death said he’d be there for him. He’s not sure how it’ll happen, but he’s going to kill that man, the one that’s given him this shitty Life. And maybe when he’s gone, he can try having a life only Death can really give him.

The clouds make it seem like it’s night, but it’s probably around 5pm when he decides to head back. Maybe they haven’t finished their run. Maybe he can have the house to himself and plan what he’s going to do. Maybe he can make it look like an accident, or get the man so riled up that it’s considered self defense.

He walks up the stairs to his house. The light is on, but it’s oddly quiet. He stares at the door handle, trying to will himself to move, but he can’t. It’s the familiar and faint feel of that strong hand that guides him. He can feel Death behind him, guiding his actions. His hot breath is at his ear. Mickey closes his eyes again, like he did in his dream.

_“I’ll be here. I promise.”_

He opens the door, and Terry is there, taking his usual seat on the couch. He turns his head, the familiar drunken daze on his face.

“Where the fuck were you?” He bellows.

Mickey doesn’t answer. He only looks, sees the coffee table covered in stolen and unregistered guns, his closet full of arsenals, the decrepit wardrobe by the door. His whole house, whole life, has been a way to die, a way to kill.

“Are you fuckin’ deaf?” Terry yells. “Where the fuck were you?”

He feels Death behind him, pressed against his back.

_“I’m here. I promise.”_

* * *

“Mr. Milkovich, will you please describe Death for us?”

Mickey stares at the lady in front of him. He remembers now. She’s the public defender. He can tell she’s trying her hardest not to look completely angry and upset. She wants him to believe that he can speak freely. So he does.

“He has red hair. It’s shaved short at the sides. He has green eyes; they’re warm, and gentle. His freckles are faded, but noticeable when up close. He’s tall, probably a head taller than me; he looks strong, like a soldier or someone close to being protective.” Mickey doesn’t recognize his own voice, and he can hear everything around him like a dull roar, like he’s in a crowded area, not a silent courtroom.

“And you said in your statement that Death told you to kill your father, is that correct?”

Mickey nods. He’s never been so pliant before, and he can’t tell if it’s his own doing or not. “Yes.”

“I’m going to show you a picture, and tell me if you recognize this person.”

There is a white projector screen that had been rolled out. She presses a button on a remote, and Mickey almost jumps from his seat. He’s excited but he has no idea why. The boy in the picture- he has the same red hair, the same warm eyes and the same gentle smile.

“Mr. Milkovich, do you recognize this man?”

Mickey nods again. “That’s Death.”

There’s a wave of murmurs behind him, and for some reason he doesn’t turn to watch. He’s not sure what’s happening really.

“Mr. Milkovich, this is Ian Gallagher. He went missing over a year ago, and we found his body a few months ago. We’ve been by his family that you had a relationship with him. And your sister told us that he was your boyfriend.”

Mickey turns now, searching for his sister, the other person Death had said he wanted to protect. He finds her with her bloodshot eyes, and they’re watering over. He can’t believe she has any tears left in her. But Mickey has plenty. And when Mandy finally looks him in the eyes, they flood from nowhere, and now he’s crying. Mickey’s not sure what’s happening, but he can’t stop crying. As he tries to face the prosecutor again, he meets eyes with the brother- he was supposed to be Death’s brother. The arrogant asshole that crossed his arms and said he was Death himself. He sits there with his arm wrapped around a younger girl with the same face as Death and he doesn’t look like he’s playing a game.

“Terrance Milkovich was under suspect for the murder of sad victim, Ian Gallagher, given his violent past with the Gallagher family and the deceased in particular.”

He wants to remember this. He wants to remember Ian Gallagher, or that Terry had anything to do with Ian Gallagher’s disappearance, because if Death had come in human form, Mickey knows he would have done anything to hold onto him. He’d had some type of person that gave him life and now he was dead. He didn’t know what was going on.

And Mickey didn’t listen to hear if he was being pleaded insanity or self-defense, but he knows he walked out of the courtroom, no visible shackles attached. And he walked home alone, just to think about what the lady had said. Ian Gallagher? He was Mickey’s boyfriend? Mickey had killed for Ian Gallagher? Or Mickey had killed because Ian Gallagher was gone?

Mickey had been sober for longer than he remembered, and quite exhausted. He was asleep as soon as he got to his room.

Almost instantly, unlike the first time, Death was there, beyond his fading bruises were those gentle eyes and behind his busted lips, there was that reassuring smile.

“Ian,” Mickey croaked. Saying his name, he felt the tears coming. “You weren’t there with me, in court.”

He smiled softly, and Mickey cried harder. This couldn’t be real. “I was there, Mick. I’ve always been there.”

He closed his eyes, trying to will the flood to subside as Ian spoke. He could feel those strong arms wrap around him, bringing him in closer, to bury into Death’s chest.

“I promised, didn’t I?” His voice was soft again, soothing and caring. “And I promised it wouldn’t be painful.”

Mickey finally picked his head up. “Are you going to take me, now?”

Death smiled as he nodded. “You can be by my side forever. I promise.” He took a hand and took Mickey’s chin, leaning closer and closer.

Mickey closed his eyes, only wanting to feel, to smell, to hear, to touch.

To be enveloped by Death.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.


End file.
